


Civilian

by boxoftheskyking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxoftheskyking/pseuds/boxoftheskyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He introduced himself as James Mason. Sebastian didn't know it was a joke until long after, and even then he didn't find it very funny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civilian

**Author's Note:**

> I made him a Captain, because I wasn't feeling Colonel. Not for this version.  
> And, no, this Moran wouldn't be one of the three gunmen. But I can do what I want, because there's no canon yet. So there.
> 
> No edits, no betas, no nothing.

He introduced himself as James Mason. Sebastian didn't know it was a joke until long after, and even then he didn't find it very funny. His first job for Mason was a simple assassination--some Chinese gang leader with laughable security. Mason pretended to be impressed and grateful, but Sebastian just shook his head and said "Don't bother," before turning on his heel and walking out of the room, envelope of cash tucked inside his jacket. If he'd turned around, he'd have seen the early hints to something like surprise flicker across Mason's face, just for a moment.

Sebastian knew what Mason did. He read people; he appealed to people. And Sebastian knew how people read him--handsome face, sharp features, unruly hair and big blue eyes. He looked _lonely_. Needs appreciation, needs someon to _talk to_. He'd be good-looking if his face ever lost its blank seriousness, as his mother always told him. "You'd be such a handsome boy, Sebastian," she'd wheeze at him from a cloud of smoke. "If you'd only smile once in a while."

The few jobs after that were almost fun. Mason started taking him a bit more seriously, sending him in without backup, sometimes without any information but a photograph of the target, just to see what he would do. And Sebastian always finished the job. Of course he did.

After the job in Moscow, Mason started calling him in without giving him any new targets. He'd just talk at him, sometimes asking questions, but never waiting for answers. Then he'd send Sebastian away with a growl and Sebastian would shrug once and leave, taking his rifle with him.

This evening, Mason is as close to angry as Sebastian has ever seen him. One of his operatives had failed, gotten himself shot before getting Mason some kind of confidential file. Again, Sebastian isn't sure why he's there. He's started using these meetings as a time to polish his rifle, taking it apart piece by delicate piece and rubbing each one until it shines. At first he thinks Mason doesn't notice, that he's too wrapped up in his own head, but by the third time he realizes that Mason never sends him away until he's finished. So he sits on the floor while Mason paces--always in a different office, hotel room, parking garage--and cleans his gun as Mason rambles. He's started responding to the rhetorical questions, too, though he's not sure how much of that Mason actually hears.

Sebastian neatly reassembles his rifle as Mason drops into a chair with a petulant snarl. They're in a shabby hotel room, the kind with vinyl furniture and three identical flower prints on the wall, as if no one would notice that they're all the same. 

"If there were any justice in the world," Mason suddenly says in a completely reasonable voice. "He'd have lived long enough for me to kill him myself. That's-- That's really the only way this would be fair. That's at tit for tat kind of thing. That's how this relationship was supposed to  _work_." On the last word he kicks out at the the rickety table, shoving it against the wall with a bang.

Sebastian rises with a sigh, turning open the rifle case.

"Doesn't sound like a productive relationship to me," he says, mostly to himself. Mason springs out of the chair in front of him, nose inches away from Sebastian's chin.

"That's the problem with you. That-- That right there--" he stabs a finger into Sebastian's sternum, "Is  _exactly_  the problem with you  _civilians_." He wheels around and flops down on the bed, smiling slightly as he bounces. Sebastian freezes.

"All due respect, Mr. Mason," he says evenly, face blank and serious as ever. "I ain't a  _civilian_."

Mason eyes light up, almost like a child who's just found a new toy. He rolls up from the bed and stands a few paces from Sebastian with a little smile. "All due respect to you, Mr. Moran," he singsongs. "But since that inconvenient little discharge, it appears that is  _exactly_  what you are."

And he's on the ground, out cold. Sebastian takes note of the rifle in his hand, the small smear of blood on the butt of the gun and the corresponding sheen on Mason's temple where the skin had split. Sebastian sits back down on the ground and pulls his rag back out of the case, spraying the stock and settling in to cleaning while keeping an eye on Mason's unconcious face. He's not sure whether Mason looks surprisingly young or surprisingly old.

He comes to in a few moments, eyes snapping open and immediately alert. He doesn't move right away, rolling his neck experimentally and feeling the cut on his forehead. He sticks his bloody fingers into his mouth and grins at Sebastian, giggling lightly.

"You almost cracked my skull," he whispers, like it's some dirty little secret.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "I don't _almost_  do anything, Mr. Mason. If I'd wanted you dead or incapacitated, that's exactly what you would be."

Mason's smile widens. "Likewise," he purrs. Sebastian tries to bite down a smile. 

"My names not Mason," the man says, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms above his head almost langourously. 

"Figured as much."

"You can call me Jim. If you want." He lets his head flop over to look at Sebastian, a coy smile coupled with those eyes that never seem to reflect the light. 

Sebastian shrugs. Jim chuckles, low and throaty. 

"Mm, Mr. Moran. I think this is going to work."

In a split second, Sebastian is on his feet, barrel of the gun resting gently in the center of Jim's forehead. The dark eyes widen for a moment, then settle into something close to joy.

"Captain," Sebastian orders. "You call me Captain."

Jim's face lights up, the smile spreading across his face so pure and open it's like looking at a completely different man. His eyes actually crinkle at the corners, and for some reason that makes it difficult for Sebastian to take a full breath. 

"Oh Captain, my Captain," Jim murmurs, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Sebastian stares at him for a year, a century, until his vision starts to spot and he's forced to take a breath. When the moment breaks, he realizes that the last time he felt so calm, so quiet, he'd been in a ditch taking heavy fire, casualties piling up on either side of him like unfinished paperwork. He steps back and disassembles the rifle, setting it in its case and snapping it shut. He wonders if it's his hands that are shaking or his vision that's blurring at the edges. 

"Sebastian," Jim says lightly from his position on the floor. He hasn't moved. 

"Yeah?" Sebastian asks gruffly, the entire room reeking of potential.

"Get the fuck out."

He does. He makes it down the single flight of stairs and into the public bathroom, into a stall with a broken lock where he finally gets a hand on himself and comes, gasping silently and leaning against the filthy plaster wall.

Two weeks later, Jim sends him to Istanbul. Then it's Johannesburg, then Mexico City. Sees Jim twice, maybe two hours at a time. Dark rooms, locked doors.

He's in Chicago when he get's a call from Mburu. He's only met the man once, barely recognizes the name. He says Jim's dead. Shot by Sherlock Holmes, people are saying. Or maybe stuck the gun in his mouth himself. Pulled the trigger.

Sebastian doesn't doubt it. He remember the smile on his face, that open, peaceful smile. 

"Somebody's gonna have to take over," Mburu crackles down the line. Sebastian hates Chicago. Everywhere he goes he gets shitty reception. "There's gonna be a war, probably. Over the empire."

"Empire," Sebastian snorts, throwing clothes in his bag with one hand. "Sure, fine. War it is."

"Holmes is dead, though. Jumped off a building."

Sebastian grunts noncommittally. He flips through his datebook, nothing but lists of cities week after week. Cairo, Kyoto, Dublin, Avila. 

"What do you say, Captain?" Mburu asks. "You gonna take over? You gonna try to be the boss now?"

"Mburu," he says, pausing in his reading. "How the fuck did you get my number?"

He snaps the phone shut, then pulls off the back and removes the battery and SIM card. He slips one into the slats of the radiator, the other into the tank of the constantly-running toilet. In three minutes he's packed and out the door, nearly checked in at O'Hare. Jim's gone but his contacts are still good. 

He takes the stairs two at a time, shouldering open the door without acknowledging the desk clerk's inane "Have a nice day!" He won't miss Chicago. 

That's the thing about Sebastian. He doesn't miss anything.


End file.
